


Moving On

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pining!John, Post-Reichenbach, how john met mary, mainly because it ends on a hopeful note, over a certain presumably dead detective, pre-Empty Hearse, sort-of fluff?, still pretty angsty tho, with a smidge of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, John couldn’t be bothered to offer the new woman--Mary? maybe? was that her name?--anything more than a polite smile when she sent patients his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> This is a ridiculously overdue fill for [masjawn](http://masjawn.tumblr.com), who gave me the prompt for a Sherlock Secret Santa... Posting it finally with a giant apology and wishes for a Happy Valentines Day?
> 
> Un-beta'd, so if you spot anything let me know. :D

After the funeral, nearly everything that reminded John of Sherlock was promptly cut from his life--he gave 221b and his deceased flatmate’s associates a wide berth when at all possible, he stayed far away from his blog, and any time he heard violin music he did his best to escape it. Even his job at the GP was a victim of his severed ties: every time he saw Sarah and the way she’d look at him with sympathy just ripped the wound open fresh, and so he resigned and found another office to offer his services.

At first, the change of scenery did no good: for the first month, the scrapes and sprains reminded John of the ones he’d dress for Sherlock after a night of mad dashing. The coughs and sniffles brought back long days in Sarah’s office, ignoring texts from Sherlock as he whinged in that acerbic way of his, demanding cases, demanding stimuli. It hurt like hell.

He nearly resigned and considered finding something new entirely. But what good would a wounded veteran deep in the hollows of grieving be able to offer any other employer? What avenues could he possibly pursue with his skill set that wouldn’t promptly remind him of the best friend he’d lost? So he did his best to plow through each day, head down and upper lip stiff, praying that if he pretended long enough, he’d trick himself into a more stable, happy way of life.

At three months, patients didn’t request him twice, and the orderlies avoided his pensive glare. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade still tried to make contact with him weekly--but he had no idea what to say to them, and so he let the calls go to voicemail.

At six months, the children didn’t shrink back from him the way they’d done at first, but then children were always so much easier to fake a smile for. Lestrade stopped texting, but Mrs. Hudson still called and left a rambling message once every week, each more apologetic than the last. He wanted to return her call, but each passing week made it harder--it slipped away from him, and he didn’t have the courage to pursue it.

At nine months, the orderlies and other GPs would joke with him in the mornings, and between patients, but they never invited him to their weekly dos at the local, but that didn’t bother John. It was much easier to let himself forget his past life when he didn’t know them well enough for them to ask.

Mrs. Hudson stopped calling, after her last message: “John, I know it’s hard. It’s been so quiet here, and--” here she paused, sniffed in deep as if she were rethinking her words, and said instead, “you have my number, dear. Just give me a call.”

* * * * * 

John spent a _long_ time just doing his best to survive each day, and while it hurt less and less, his heart was mostly just numb.

* * * * * 

In late May, nearly a year and a half after Sherlock’s death, one of the orderlies went on maternity leave, and a temporary was hired on. At first, John couldn’t be bothered to offer the new woman--Mary? maybe? was that her name?--anything more than a polite smile when she sent patients his way. 

“Dr. Watson?” she asked one afternoon, poking her head into his doorway. “Mr. Bailey’s on his way in for his physical.”

John looked up from the file he’d been scanning at his desk, blinking quickly to bring her into focus. “What? Ah, all right. Send him in.”

But rather than turn away from her spot, she paused. When he saw her shadow still darkening his doorway from his periphery, he looked up to her again.

“Yes?” he asked, tilting his head in a way most people found friendly.

She smiled, quick and tight-lipped, as if trying to sweeten her words. “It’s nothing.”

He frowned. “Everything all right?”

But her smile persisted. “No, never mind,” she answered. “I’ll send Mr. Bailey in now.”

* * * * * 

At the end of his shift, she caught him by the door, purse and jacket already in hand as she apparently was ending her shift as well.

“Headed out?” he asked.

“I am. Which way are you going?”

John inclined his head to his left, vaguely in the direction of the nearest station. “Tube,” he answered. “You?”

“Waiting for my cab. I’ve got to go across town to my sister’s this evening. But I could do with the company, if you’re not in a rush?”

Uneasiness tightened John’s throat. If she was looking to strike up a conversation, he wanted no part of it. But then, if he could offer her some company as she waited for her cab--they  _were_ on the rougher side of town, and well, he could probably struggle through, couldn’t he?

“If you can’t, I understand--” she started when his pause stretched overlong.

“No, no, it’s all fine. I can stick around for a few minutes.”

She grinned. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He offered her a smile, and then looked back toward the building, unsure of what to say.

John could feel Mary still staring at him, her gaze boring into the side of his head as he pretended to study the building, and he wanted to kick himself. Why had he agreed to this? He didn’t want this--he couldn’t stand small talk, and his bed was calling long and hard. It wasn’t too late, maybe, to pretend to get a text from someone, and beg off the favor.

But who texted him anymore?

_If Sherlock were to text me, he’d have nearly everything about this woman sorted before her taxi came._

The thought came unexpectedly, and the tightness in John’s throat threatened to seal his airway shut. Eighteen months, it had been, and he still had these moments. These moments where he _forgot_.

“John?”

He turned to find Mary staring at him still, although now her arms were crossed over her chest. She had the same godawful sympathetic expression Sarah used to wear, right after--

John forced the corners of his mouth to pull up in a smile, but he knew she’d see right through it. He felt transparent, foolish and obvious.

“John, what’s the matter?” she asked, and reached a hand to lay on his shoulder.

He backed away, his smile starting to ache. “It’s--it’s nothing. Long day.”

“You really don’t like me, do you, John Watson?”

It almost felt like relief to drop the smile, let his confusion show instead. “What? What gave you that idea?”

She studied him a moment longer before answering. “You avoid me in ways that you don’t with the other staff. If I’ve said or done something to offend you--”

“No, no, Lord, no,” John protested. “It’s--no. It’s not that.”

“So what is it then?”

And that was the problem in a nutshell, wasn’t it? He couldn’t very well explain to this complete stranger exactly why he avoided everyone, why he did his best to keep out of the affairs of his coworkers. Why he avoided that long, slow slog toward finding a new friend, or friends. He’d had acquaintences before, two lifetimes ago, people he’d thought were friends--but those had paled in comparison to--

“It’s really, no--it’s not that I don’t-- you haven’t done--” John balled his fists at his sides, scrabbling to find some plausible excuse. There was none.

After another long moment, Mary reached for his shoulder again, gave it a squeeze. She opened her mouth to say something, but then the taxi appeared, and she let her hand drop. Mary opened the door, but then turned to offer him a parting shot: “I’m glad, then, because it was going to be awfully hard to chat you up, if you didn’t.”

He stood, flabbergasted, as her door shut and her cab merged into traffic.

 * * * * * 

It wasn’t until Friday that they worked together again, three days after the conversation and the cab. She smiled brightly at him as she clocked in that morning, and for the first time John noticed just how pretty she was. He’d never paid much attention before, too busy burying himself in his work, but she’d worn her hair down, and her eyes sparkled as she handed him a coffee from a nearby shop.

He took a small sip, wary of the heat seeping through the paper sleeve, and smiled. “Black. That’s how I like it actually--”

Mary winked at him. “I know, I saw.”

John took an appreciative sip, nearly scalding the hell out of his mouth, and promptly felt stupid. But he chuckled, and she winked at him before she left to start her day.

 * * * * * 

During his lunch break, she came round and had the audacity to plop down onto his desk.

“Can I help you?” he asked, but he found himself genuinely smiling as he said it.

“Possibly.”

John swallowed thickly around his sandwich. “How so?”

“Well, Doctor Watson,” she said, and even the way she said it sounded like she slowed down to enjoy the syllables of his name, “I find myself on a Friday night with a great desire for a particular sandy-haired doctor to accompany me to dinner and a movie. My treat.”

John, for his part, was glad that he hadn’t gone ahead and taken another bite of his sandwich, as he would have likely choked on it. “You want--you want to take me--”

“For a date, yes. If you’d like.”

John stared at her for a long moment, considering. Here was a friendly, seemingly well-adjusted person whose biggest problem with him potentially not liking her was that _she wouldn’t be able to flirt with him_.

He squinted slightly, licking his lips as he thought. _You’ve held onto that torchsong for long enough. It’s not bringing him back._

 _But nothing’s ever going to be what_ that _was,_ another part of his mind niggled.

 _And you’re never going to have a shot at any other sort of happiness if you don’t move your arse,_ his inner therapist retorted. 

The silence had just begun to encroach the territory of the awkwardly long before John resolved himself. “Okay,” he croaked, nodding quickly, a sharp jerk of the chin. His smile felt too-wide. “I think I’d like that.”

Mary beamed at him, and gave a pleased wiggle. “Brilliant. Think about where you want to go. We get off the same time tonight, we can head out after.” With that she hopped down from his desk, disappearing with a little wave. 

John waved back. For the first time in nearly a year-and-a-half, he found himself actually smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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